An INKredibly Measured Decision

Over the past few weeks of writing these few ramblings I have received a number of delightful comments from people who have seemingly enjoyed reading them. One question I was asked this week was “why did you start to do it?” This got me thinking. For me, there was no concrete reason as to why began to write publicly, for as long as can remember I have hated my work being read out; In fact, even the thought of my own mother proof-reading bits and pieces that I wrote for school and college still brings me out in a cold sweat. I suppose the reason was twofold. Firstly, I can only imagine that I wanted to write publicly as a means of practice. Studying for a degree in English, the way you write and how you present yourself in an essay or other piece of work is the University’s only means of assessing your academic capabilities (except when you’re doing African dancing in a theatre workshop and wondering how your life went so wrong). Secondly, and I think the aspect of doing this that seems most apparent, is that I actually really enjoy it. I’ve never had any quarms about writing (heaven help me if I did being on this course) and I like the fact that I am providing a medium for people to read, hopefully enjoy and sometimes empathise with me on some of the subjects on which I write.

Now forgive me for being so blunt but I’m going to go right ahead. Many of you may be aware that my favourite band of all time is the LA funk-rockers, Red Hot Chili Peppers. Many I spoke to were annoyed (and many repulsed) at the amount of times I went to see them on their current UK leg of the tour they are currently working their way through – the opening UK date at London’s O2 Arena and both dates at Manchester’s M.E.N. Arena for those who didn’t know but are interested (presumptuous I know but I always presume that some are as nerdy as me). Now with love for the band very much out in the open so to speak, you would be forgiven for presuming that the subject of the rant this time would be focused on the train wreck of a television show, The X Factor. Alas, I haven’t the energy to write as much poisonous spite as I want and could do about that farcical rendition of Under the Bridge. I’d just end up giving myself a heart attack so I’m straying very much away from that.

No, the subject of my thoughts this week – and indeed for many a previous week – is tattoos. Again, bear with my seemingly random change of direction. Now every member of RHCP is no stranger to a tattoo or five (with the exception of new blood Josh Klinghoffer), many of which are personal images and all of which have a story attached to them. For a long time, I myself have wanted a tattoo of the bands logo somewhere upon my person (for those who are unaware of said logo it is a thick asterisk shape; you’ll recognise it when you see it), my preference being my inside wrist however I can comprehend the aesthetic reasons against such a decision and have been thinking about other positions. There is not one member of my family that agrees with me getting a tattoo and I can’t really see why. It’s not that I can’t comprehend their opinions, I just don’t necessarily agree with them. After all, perhaps I don’t want to work in an establishment in the future that doesn't allow an, all-told, fairly basic form of expressive creativity.

Now I know many people who have tattoos, and cannot understand, in most cases, the stigma placed by many people upon the tattoo adorned community. Granted, there are some people, and some designs that let their side of the argument down. We’ve all seen a complete horror story of a tattoo and to be honest, it’s often funnier when the people themselves cannot see how woefully awful it is. Pictures are always popping up on Facebook of Chav’s getting pretentious Latin phrases or Arabic scripture tattooed across their forehead or something even though the furthest from the UK they’ve been is on holiday to Mykonos and their gene-pool doesn’t expand further than Liverpool. It truly makes you despair of the human race.

Also, it’s not as though this is a whimsical decision I have made. I haven’t got drunk and stumbled into a tattoo parlour demanding an image of a frog dancing with a chicken on my arm or had a relative strangers name branded onto my knuckles, it’s a measured, reasoned and considered choice. I doubt this will make any kind of impression on those that don’t like them (and like myself there are plenty of people without tattoos who enjoy a tasteful design, with shows such as LA, NY and Miami Ink exploiting this), but it’s something I thought I ought to bring up. Good tattoos showcase a diverse art form and when done well they can be incredible. And plus, who’s going to want to argue the toss with Ami James or Corey Miller? Didn’t think so.

Stop! Grammar Time!

As was the reasoning behind the creation of the previous blob of rambling matter that I splattered all over your screens about a week ago, I find myself at my desk at a loose end. On Tuesday I have an English essay to submit. An English essay, I must confess, that does not yet exist. The ominous task of creating such a gargantuan and overwhelming collection of words that I use, but don’t really understand, combined with footnotes that aren’t really relevant but that somehow make me appear more intellectual is a prospect that I fear will never be conquered. In fact, instead of this, I have spent the last couple of hours watching missed episodes of Masterchef and clips of Qi on YouTube. But alas there is only so much time in which you can watch Gregg Wallace drool over syrup-drizzled panacottas before you start to feel physically ill.

However, in an attempt to further procrastinate around actually doing anything of worthwhile importance, I figured I would just write about something that has annoyed me more than usual this week. The dawn of Facebook, it seems, has brought with it the demise of any grammatical conventions that the languages of our society have been built upon since humans stopped grunting, and started to use real words (the people of Wigan can therefore now cease to read this article). I jest of course; everyone knows that ‘Wiganers’ can’t read; not if what they’re reading isn’t on the board of a chip shop. I am, what is affectionately known by most to be called, a ‘Grammar-Nazi.’ I would like to say that this has been brought upon me by my English degree for which I am currently whittling my life away on, however; it is something that I have always been.

Bad grammar irritates me. I think it is probably the laziness of the mistakes that people make that really gives me the hump. In general, we can slip up in a verbal conversation and get away with it. A colleague may be thinking, “Did he just say ‘irregardless’?”, but the words flow on, and our worst transgressions are carried away and with luck, forgotten. That’s not the case with written communications. When we commit a grammatical crime in emails, discussion posts, reports and other professional documents, there’s no going back. We’ve just officially gone on record as being careless or clueless. And here’s the worst thing; it’s not necessary to be an editor or a language ‘whiz’ or a spelling bee nerd to spot such mistakes. They have a sneaky method of evading detection by the writer and then reaching out to grab the reader by the throat.

Sadly, I have identified four main grammatical faux pas plaguing our society. In only the past hour I have spotted these four mistakes in just quick scans of my Facebook news feed; many, I must say, coming from people my age who are now mother’s, but I digress; plus, they know who they are. It’s just a pity they don’t know who the father’s are. Anyway, that’s another rant for another time. Here they are:

‘Your’ and ‘You’re’ are two completely different words with completely different meanings. Arguably the most common error, this plagues Facebook accounts and text messages the world over. All it takes to avoid this error is to take a second and think about what you’re trying to say. It is also a favourite generally amongst Chavs; as in, “you’re screwing up your writing by using your when you really mean you are.” The uses of both ‘It’s’ and ‘Its’ are also common mistakes generally overlooked. When writing something, repeat your sentence out loud using “it is.” If that sounds goofy, “its” is likely the correct choice. Thirdly, ‘There’ and ‘Their’. Come on! It’s either a place or something belonging to someone! Not exactly the most confusing definitions. Finally, but to be fair, ‘affect’ and ‘effect’ are harder ones to grasp than most. However, “Affect” is a verb, as in “Your ability to communicate clearly will affect your income immensely.” “Effect” is a noun, as in “The effect of a parent’s low income on a child’s future is well documented.” By thinking in terms of “the effect,” you can usually sort out which is which, because you can’t stick a “the” in front of a verb. While some people do use “effect” as a verb (“a strategy to effect a complication”), they are usually lawyers, and you should therefore ignore them if you want to write like a human.

Now trust me, I understand how anal this is but it’s something that really grinds my gears. No doubt however that at some point in this passage I will have fallen fowl to the very evil I am commenting on; if have or do however, trust me that’s purely accidental. Do I really sound like the sort of person to use grammatical errors in order to get a cheap laugh? Especially at the end! Oh, the cheek of it. To be honest though, I’m surprised you’ve made it this far! If you are reading this, congratulations, give yourself a pat on the back. Done that? Right, now go and jump out of the window. It’s official. Your sad.

The Best Days of Your Life?

In many respects, I am at that point in my University life (granted all two months of it) in which I am beginning to question my very purpose of being here. It may seem a little late now to be asking myself the question “do I really want to be here?” but, truth be told, that is currently where I am. As I write this at my desk in my room surrounded by papers of varying importance, complication and intimidation, I despairingly think of my reasoning behind putting myself in this situation. Before applying to any establishment I was sat down by various people at my college and told the same old things repeatedly; “at University you won’t be ‘spoon-fed’,” “there’s an awful lot of private research time,” “you have to be motivated,” e.t.c. At the time I was having this shoved down my throat, I guess I didn’t really process it. As with health and safety talks, the pre-flight emergency procedure on an aeroplane and the terms and conditions on television competitions, I heard but didn’t really listen. In hindsight, I actually quite enjoyed being ‘spoon-fed’ at college, I don’t really work very well when studying in isolation (after all, who actually likes homework?) and I find it quite hard to motivate myself to a point where I feel comfortable enough to crack off three 1,700 word essays in one sitting, all on a different subject.

Why then, did I apply for University? All of the things I was warned about having to do, I hated doing. I had a choice. Why didn’t I stay away from the things that I had hated since I turned up to my first day at Primary School all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed? I suspect, on reflection, the reason is simple. I felt I had to. I can’t remember a time in which University was never on the cards for me. For me, it seemed like a natural process; Primary School, Secondary School, College, University. I never envisaged my life having not gone to University. It was natural. Really though, what else could I have done having finished College? An apprenticeship? No thank you. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against them. I’m not some sort of academic snob (trust me, I’ve met a few) who feels that University is the only path to follow. For some, an apprenticeship is exactly what the doctor ordered. I know a couple of people, extremely good friends at that, who have gone on to do apprenticeships and they love it. Getting paid to learn, who would argue with that? I could never do an apprenticeship though. The reason being that I am, admittedly, work-shy. I worked in McDonalds for just over a year and I hated it. In some ways, although to date that has been my only job, it has put me off work of that nature forever. The prospect of a 9-5 day essentially doing ‘a job’ at this point in my life, scares the living crap out of me. I’ll pass thanks.

So apart from that and signing on, University was really the only other measured option. People will often tell you that your days at University are often “the best days of your entire life” (now where have I heard that before?) and in many ways I would agree with them. Apart from having no money, a constant and ridiculous amount of work to do in literally no time, a constant and ridiculous amount of reading to do in literally no time and realising for the first week or so that you’ve essentially moved to a new city having left behind most, if not all, of your family and closest friends, yes; I would agree.

Having read this back to myself, I have detected, as some of you may have done, a certain pessimism in my writing. I have the potential to be a fairly pessimistic and sarcastic so-and-so. It’s just in my nature. At times I can be, if you like, the Charlie Brooker or David Mitchell of the everyday. Having said that, I feel I may have been somewhat unfair on the almighty establishment that is ‘Higher Education.’ I do not hate it per se. At current, I am just struggling to find its purpose in my life. I am enjoying my course and very much like the people it has allowed me to meet. But after three years, then what? Sometimes I feel like I am racking up this ridiculous debt in order to simply delay having to find a job. I suppose that’s what these next few years are for; to understand what it is I want to achieve in life like some sort of heinously expensive Psychiatrist appointment. We’ll see. Anyway, that’s enough from me. These essays aren’t going to write themselves.